The Burned Man
by Cameron-Sholto
Summary: ON HIATUS. It's 2007, and the fate of a woman rests in the hands of Sherlock Holmes and Michael Westen. Two of the brightest and most capable men ever. . . what could go wrong?  Sam/Lestrade friendship, implied mild Sherstrade
1. Chapter 1: The Case

**The Burned Man**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any rights to BBC's version of the Sherlock Holmes canon, nor any rights to Burn Notice. I am merely a loyal fan of both and do not wish to profit from this. Please do not sue my ass.**

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Case<strong>

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><p>My name is Michael Westen. I used to be a spy.<p>

But you already know all about that, don't you? Of course you do. So let's cut to the chase, shall we?

It was a fairly typical day in Miami when this whole incident started. I'd been working a case with Fi, trying to catch another bounty. It was nasty work, I had to admit, but I had nothing else to do. The worst thing about being burned was the waiting.

Whether you're riding camel-back through the deserts of North Africa or hacking your way through the Brazilian rainforest with a pocket knife, your biggest enemy in the field is thirst. If you don't hydrate, you lose focus, coordination, and eventually you will die from either dehydration or making a fatal error.

With this in mind, we'd stopped off at a convenience store in what Fiona affectionately termed "not a nice neighborhood" to pick up some water and yogurt for the cooler. She stayed in the car, muttering something about how I needed to be "more understanding." Whatever that meant.

By the time I got back to the car, she looked panicked.

"What is it, Fi?" I asked, looking around. She didn't need to answer. I could clearly see the black sedan on the other side of the street and the angry-looking men inside it. When would bad guys learn to be more subtle.

"You want to fight them or make a break for it?" I asked. She rolled her eyes.

"And why should I have to choose?"

As we peeled out of our parking space, she leaned out of the passenger window with her .45.

"I wish you'd let me bring something heavier, Michael."

"Not now, Fi." I sighed. If they weren't after us before, they sure as hell were now. And I really couldn't afford any new enemies.

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><p>As we pulled into the loft, I looked over at Fi, who was pouting slightly.<p>

"Think we lost them?" she muttered.

"I don't know. You did shoot out their windshield _and _two of their tires."

"Maybe we could make sure."

I was about to snap back when there was a tap on the window. I got out of the car.

Sam looked at us with concern evident in his eyes.

"Where have you been, Mikey? I've been calling you for an hour."

"Glad you were worried, Sam," I snapped back. "Your FBI buddies breathing down your neck again?"

I regretted it the second I saw the look of hurt permeate his face.

"Come on, Mike. You know I don't have a choice."

I sighed. The bastards had threatened his pension. He was right.

"Sorry, Sam. It's just been a long day."

"It's about to get longer." He held up a file. "I've got a case."

I glanced at the folder. "Sam. . . That seal is the seal of the British police force. How did this end up in your hands?"

Fiona fumed. "English bastards. We should shoot the lot."

I held up a hand. Now was hardly the time for politics. I wanted answers.

Sam ignored her. "Old buddy from my Navy days. We worked joint operations during the Cold War. He's police now, and it seems one of his suspects is here in Miami. Bad sort of character too, Mike. He's killed quite a few people."

I took the file from him, flipping through it. David Hudson. A tall, dark-eyed man, ex-military himself. No rap sheet, just a wife and two kids. But that was just the declassified stuff. The man had spy written all over him.

"Let me guess," I muttered. "You've already signed us up for this."

Sam grinned. "Yup."

I glared at him, and he retaliated with his signature puppy dog eyes.

"Look, Mikey. I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but Greg is a very old friend. He saved my life. I owe him at least one favor. I'll go it alone if you want, but. . ."

I sighed. "Fine, we'll do it."

"What?" Fiona glared at us both. "Help the English? No, boys, you're on your own this time."

I smiled gently at her. "I understand."

She nodded subtly back before spinning on her heels and strutting out of the gate.

I sighed. This was going to be interesting.

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><p>"Greg!" Sam's voice was jovial as he greeted the man on the other end of the line. "I'd like you to meet Michael Westen."<p>

"Hello, Michael," responded a soft voice from the other end. "My name is Greg Lestrade. Sam's told me a lot about you."

I looked critically at the phone as it lay on the table.

A trained operative can tell a lot about someone from their voice. In a job where you frequently rely on people you've never met, this skill can save your life.

I relaxed. This man wasn't a threat. His accent was London, middle-class, if I had to guess.

"I hope he hasn't told you too much," I replied, glaring at Sam across the table. He took a swig of beer, shrugging as if there was nothing to worry about.

"If there's one thing I know about Sam, it's that he's discrete," replied Lestrade. "Except when it comes to the ladies, right, Sam?"

I snorted. Definitely old friends.

"For the last time, I didn't know she was your brother's wife," muttered Sam. "Now what can you tell us about this Hudson character?"

The man on the other end of the line sighed. "Not much more than I already have. The man's clever. We've been trying to pin something on him for years. We know he's an assassin, but we haven't a shred of evidence. I was just about to call in some reinforcements of my own when he slipped through our fingers and headed your way."

I sighed. "So you want us to prove he's dirty?"

"Essentially."

I looked at Sam. "Sounds easy enough. How do I find him?"

"That's your area." The man paused, as if reading something. "I'm afraid I have to run. But never fear. I've sent you some help."

"Help? What sort of help?"

But the line had gone dead. I turned to Sam, trying not to panic.

"Help, Sam?"

He shrugged. "Apparently Greg wanted his own team on this as well. Don't worry. I'm sure we can handle them."

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><p>I was awakened by a knock on the door. I moaned, looking at the clock by my bed. 3 AM. Who the hell. . .<p>

I pulled the door open quickly, my gun at the ready.

Standing on the stoop was a tall, dark-haired man, rather on the young side. He glanced about the room quickly, then sighed.

"Relax, Mr. Westen," he crooned in a rich, low voice. "I'm unarmed."

British. I frowned.

"Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here at this hour?"

He smiled. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to solve this case. May I come in?"


	2. Chapter 2: Two Dead Men

**Chapter Two: Two Dead Men**

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><p>When I woke up the next morning, my visitor was already about, picking through the rusty fridge.<p>

"Yogurt and beer. Dull."

I rolled my eyes. "Good morning. Sorry, I don't usually have time to go grocery shopping. There should still be some pickles in the back. I'll get you a fork."

He turned to me, eyes flashing. "No. I'm not hungry."

"Then why. . .?" Did I even need to ask? Only half a day, and he was already getting on my nerves.

"Just learning about you."

"Funny," I replied, frowning. "I don't especially like people nosing around."

"Yes, I imagine you wouldn't, Mr. Westen." He smirked at me. "I'd ask you where you've been recently, but it's written all over you. Spies do have the most distinctive wear to their foreheads, you know. I'd imagine it's all the lying."

I sighed. It wasn't as if no one knew my background. I went to the fridge and pulled out a yogurt. Blueberry, today. Definitely.

"So," I asked, trying to keep things friendly, "who are you, exactly?"

He rolled his eyes. "Come now. You already have some idea, surely. You may not be as bright as I am, but you are well trained in observation, are you not?"

I nodded. "Yes. . . But see normally I ask people questions and they answer them. I don't like to have to dig when I don't have to."

"Oh, go on, then," he replied. "I'm curious to see what you make of me."

I sighed, staring at him critically. It wasn't as though I hadn't already made some observations. "You're English, London, if I had to guess, though something about you suggests that you didn't always live in the city. You aren't police, but Lestrade trusts you enough to send you on an international mission. Some sort of intelligence, then. Only no, you aren't trained. You do this for fun, don't you? Private detective, right?"

He snorted. "Not bad. Consulting detective. Sort of what you do, I suppose. Only I'm not such a bleeding heart."

I frowned. "What?"

"Oh, come now. You help people because you like doing the right thing. You think it'll make up for all the bad things you've done. And you've done a lot of bad things, haven't you? Don't try to deny it."

I glared at him as he continued.

"I solve crimes. Helping people is a little side benefit. I'm in it for the game."

I smiled, though inside I was about ready to throw him against the wall. He sounded too much like some of my more shady associates. Sociopath. One thing was for certain. I would have to keep an eye on him.

"Now then," he crooned, "when do we start?"

"As soon as Sam gets here," I replied, looking at my watch anxiously. He was late.

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><p>"Sorry I'm late, Mikey. Did you know that Thursdays are half-off mojito day at three different bars in this town? God, I love Miami!"<p>

"Sam," I retorted, "did you get any new information?"

He looked at me, hurt I'd even had to ask.

"Yes and no. This guy covers his tracks really well."

I frowned. "Spill, Sam."

He looked anxiously at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"He hasn't got anything I don't already know."

Sam frowned. "Hey, buddy, I just spent four hours tailing this guy. If you've got better information, maybe you should have told us ahead of time."

"Please. I could have pinned him in five minutes."

"Then why haven't you?" I could barely control the edge in my voice. Intelligent people I had no problem with. Arrogant sons of bitches were a different story.

Sherlock sighed. "Because I was on a tighter leash than normal. I've had. . . Setbacks."

"Mikey, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, Sam." We walked outside, although I was not particularly comfortable leaving Sherlock alone with all of my stuff.

Sam's face was dark with worry. It was a look I knew well. Something bad was happening.

"Look, brother, I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I really am."

"Sam. . ."

"No, let me finish. The thing is, this Hudson guy. . . He's a spy hunter, Mikey."

I inhaled harshly. Oh. Well that really wasn't something I wanted to hear.

Being a government operative has a lot of advantages. You get support, protection, and financial backing for your operations. But no one really likes getting spied on. Even protected spies are vulnerable to attack from people hired to do counterespionage. Most counterespionage is mild, passive. Sometimes it involves hacking or sabotage. But sometimes, if the person you've pissed off is really, really pissed off, he'll hire someone to kill you. And while the odds aren't great for your survival with the aid of your agency, they get much worse when you have no resources.

"Great," I said. "So what's the plan?"

"I donno. This guy catches wind you're a burned spy, though, and we might not get very many options."

I nodded. "I understand, Sam. But right now, we have a job to do."

I started to walk back up the stairs.

"Mike."

I stopped, looking back at him. "Yeah, Sam?"

"This Sherlock guy. Have you noticed the. . ." he gestured to his arms.

"Yeah." Track marks. The guy had a drug habit. That much was obvious. "But we need him. He's the best lead on Hudson we've got. . . apparently. And I don't trust him. I want to keep an eye on him. They could be working together."

"I don't like it," he retorted, eyes bright with caution.

"Neither do I, Sam. But it is what it is."

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><p>"What the hell are you doing with my soldering iron?" I bellowed, glaring at the detective.<p>

"Experiment," he said simply.

"No." I walked over to him, trying not to pull a gun on him. Fiona said I needed to work on my anger issues - not that that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black or anything. "No experiments with my equipment in my house."

"This isn't your house. This is where you sleep."

I stared at him in disbelief. "No, I live here."

"But your house is elsewhere. Ah, yes, your mother's place."

"Have you been following me?" This was bad. If he worked for Hudson. . .

"No. I merely made an observation."

I sighed, trying to ignore him. Fi would owe me big time for this.

"Just don't touch anything else, ok?"

He nodded, though I could tell by the way he was standing that he had no intention of listening to me.

"Fine. So you must have found the bodies then."

"Bodies?" This was news to me. Sam hadn't mentioned bodies.

"Oh. He hasn't told you yet."

"Hey, Sam?" I called.

He walked into the loft, his eyes hiding something. Probably fear.

"Bodies, Sam?"

He nodded, dropping a folder on the table. "Two men, last night, within walking distance. One of them was dumped in the canal. The other in a dumpster. Both of them were shot through the head, execution style."

"Any idea who they were?" I asked, alarmed. People were shot all the time in Miami, and I did live in a bad part of town. But if these events were connected to Hudson. . .

Sam shook his head. "No, but here's the creepy part."

Sherlock looked closely at the pictures, gasping in recognition. "Oh. Oh, this is brilliant!"

I glared at him. "Murders aren't generally considered a good thing."

"Maybe not to you. But look." He gestured to the men in question. Both were of medium built, well-dressed, with light brown hair cut close to their heads.

"Oh." I managed. "Maybe I'd better stay away from the windows for a while."


	3. Chapter 3: A Dead End

**Chapter Three: A Dead End**

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><p>"Well, Mike, it's not looking good," muttered Sam as we drove to the last known coordinates of Mr. Hudson.<p>

I laughed. "When does it ever, Sam?"

"I mean it." His eyes were bright with concern. "This guy's killing people who look like you. Whether he's warning you off or is just bad at identifying you. . . Either way, I'm not sure you should be marching up to his front door."

"I know." I smirked at him. "That's why you're going to do it."

"Me?" He gulped. "I donno, Mikey. We're pals and all, but I think that sorta goes above and beyond the call of duty."

I patted him on the back with one hand, keeping a tight grip on the steering wheel with the other.

"Relax, Sam. You'll have backup."

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><p>Sherlock glared at us as I popped open the trunk.<p>

"Are you done being annoying, or would you like to stay in there?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "I was merely pointing out that your plan is idiotic."

"No offense, but I do this all the time. All you and Sam have to do is distract the guy while I circle around and break in the back."

"You're going to die," he muttered.

"I hate to say it, brother, but I agree with our friend here. We don't know if he's got guards. We could be walking into a trap."

I nodded. "That's what I'm counting on, Sam."

"What?"

Sherlock smiled. "Ah, yes. The last thing he would expect is that you would have suicidal tendencies. Never mind, I like this idea."

Sam looked from one of us to the other, his concern giving way to bafflement, then returning to concern.

"Can we at least call Fiona?"

I looked at him in surprise. Sam was no big fan of Fi's, that was for sure.

"Now don't think I'm getting friendly with your psychotic girlfriend, Mike, but maybe I'd like this plan better if we had some explosives?"

I smiled, reaching into the back of the Charger's trunk and pulling out a few packages of C4 bundled together with a remote detonator.

Sherlock's eyes went wide. He clearly hadn't realized he'd been lying on top of a bomb. _It was a shame really_, I could hear Fi say in the back of my brain, _that he hadn't set it off._

I tossed it to Sam, who caught it anxiously.

"Ok, well, I'm out of objections. Shall we do this?"

I nodded, heading off to the back of the warehouse.

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><p>Whether raiding an insurgent camp in the desert of the Arabian Peninsula or breaking into your ex-girlfriend's place to steal back your watch, a good diversion is the key to success. The element of surprise is all well and good, but the last thing you want is to be the one surprised.<p>

I couldn't see or hear what Sam and Sherlock were up to, but it didn't take too long for me to realize that their diversion wasn't going to work.

Mostly this realization came to me as I was pushed onto my stomach by a rather large man in black combat boots.

"Hi there," I managed.

He grunted, leaning down to pin me.

Big mistake.

I head butted him in the groin, stealing his firearm as he went down.

"Sorry," I muttered, "but I don't have time for this." I pistol-whipped him and moved into the building.

Which was empty. Completely cleaned out. Whatever had been there was gone.

Or so I thought. As I turned to leave, I heard a whimpering noise from behind the stairs. I moved towards the noise slowly. In my experience, bad guys often pretend to be victims to escape your notice until they have time to shoot you. The smart ones, anyway.

Unless Hudson had taken up elaborate crossdressing - a possibility I could not immediately rule out - the source of the noise was a frightened woman around the same age as my mother. I helped her to her feet.

"Ok, thank you, dear," she managed in a civil English accent.

"You must be Mrs. Hudson," I said. "Any idea where your husband is?"

She shook her head. "No. Oh, but I hope you find him quickly before something bad happens."

Sam and Sherlock joined me soon afterwards. As we helped her into the car, Sam gave me a significant look.

"We can't keep her in the loft, Mike."

He was right. Unfortunately. Off to my mom's place, then.

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><p><strong>Sorry for the delays in uploading this! What with Christmas, my birthday, and my RP starting back up, it's been a touch hectic. Expect more regular updates.<strong>


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